K. Henry. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my bonnet: then if ever thou dar'ft acknowledge it, I will make it my quarrel.

Will. Here's my glove; give me another of thine. K Henry. There.

Will. This will I alfo wear in my cap; if ever thou come to me and fay, after to-morrow, this is my glove; by this hand, I will give thee a box on the ear.

K. Henry. If ever I live to fee it, I will challenge it. Will. Thou dar'ft as well be hang'd.

K. Henry. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the King's company.

Will. Keep thy word: fare thee well.

Bates. Be friends, you English fools, be friends; we have French quarrels enow, if you could tell how to [Exeunt Soldiers.

reckon.

K. Henry.

IN

Manet King Henry.

INDEED, the French may lay twenty French crowns to one, they will beat us, for they bear them on their shoulders; but it is no English treafon to cut French crowns, and to-morrow the King himself will be a clipper.

Upon the King! let us our lives, our fouls,
Our debts, our careful wives, our children and
Our fins, lay on the King; he must bear all.
O hard conditon, and twin-born with greatness,
Subject to breath of ev'ry fool, whofe fenfe
No more can feel but his own wringing.
What infinite heart-ease muft Kings neglect,
That private men enjoy? and what have Kings,
That private have not too, fave ceremony?
Save gen'ral ceremony ?

And what art thou, thou idol ceremony?
What kind of God art thou, that fuffer ft more
Of mortal griefs, than do thy worshippers?

N 2

* What

What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in?
O ceremony, fhew me but thy worth:
What is thy toll, O adoration?

Art thou aught elfe but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?

Wherein thou art lefs happy, being fear'd,
Than they in fearing.

What drink'ft thou oft, inftead of homage fweet,
But poifon'd flatt'ry? O be fick, great Greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure.
Think'ft thou, the fiery fever will go out

With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
Canft thou, when thou command'ft the beggar's knee,
Command the health of it? no, thou proud dream,
That play'ft fo fubtly with a King's repofe;
I am a King, that find thee; and I know,
'Tis not the balm, the fcepter and the ball,
The fword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The enter-tiffued robe of gold and pearl,
The farfed title running 'fore the King,
The throne he fits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high fhore of this world;
No, not all these thrice-gorgeous ceremonies,
Not all thefe, laid in bed majeftical,

Can fleep fo foundly as the wretched slave;
Who, with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him to reft, cramm'd with diftrefsful bread;
Never fees horrid night, the child of hell:

What are thy rents? What are thy comings-in?

O ceremony, fhew me but thy worth:

What! is thy foul of adoration?] Thus is the laft Line given us, and the Nonfenfe of it made worse by the ridiculous Pointing. We fhould read, What is thy toll, O adoration? Let us examine how the Context ftands with my Emendation. What are thy rents? What are thy comings-in? What is thy worth? What is thy toll?—(i. e. the Duties, and Impofs, thou receiveft:) All here is confonant, and agrecable to a fenfible Exclamation. So King John:- -No Italian priest fhall tythe or toll in our Dominions. Mr. Warburton.

But,

But, like a lacquey, from the rife to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phabus; and all night
Sleeps in Elyfium; next day, after dawn,
Doth rife, and help Hyperion to his horse;
And follows fo the ever-running year
With profitable labour to his grave:
And (but for ceremony) fuch a wretch,
Winding up days with toil, and nights with fleep;
Hath the fore-hand and vantage of a King:
The flave, a member of the country's peace,
Enjoys it; but in grofs brain little wots,
What watch the King keeps to maintain the
Whose hours the peafant beft advantages.

peace;

Y lord, your Nobles, jealous of your ab.

Erp.

ΜΥ

fence,

Seek through your camp to find you.

K. Henry. Good old Knight,

Collect them all together at my tent:
I'll be before thee.

Erp. I fhall do't my lord.

[Exit.

K. Henry. O God of battles! fteel my foldiers'

hearts;

Poffefs them not with fear; take from them now
The fence of reck'ning: left th' opposed numbers
Pluck their hearts from them.-Not to day, O Lord,
O not to day, think not upon the fault

My fathers made in compaffing the crown.
I Richard's body have interred new,

And on it have beftow'd more contrite tears,
Than from it iffu'd forced drops of blood.
Five hundred Poor I have in yearly pay,
Who twice a-day their wither'd hands hold up
Tow'rd heav'n to pardon blood; and I have built

N 3

Two

Two chauntries, where the fad and folemn priefts
Sing ftill for Richard's foul. More will I do;
Tho' all that I can do, is nothing worth,
Since that my penitence comes after call,
Imploring pardon.

Glou. My Liege.

Enter Gloucefter.

K. Henry. My brother Glo'fler's voice? I know thy errand, I will go with thee:

The day, my friends, and all things ftay for me.

SCEN NE

[Excunt.

VII.

Changes to the French Camp.

Enter the Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures and Beaumont.

Orl.

THE

HE Sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords.

Dau. Montez Cheval: my horfe, valet, lacquay: ha! Orl. O brave spirit!

Dau. Via! les eaux & la terre.

Orl. Rien puis! le air & feu.

Dau. Ciel! Coufin Orleans.

Enter Conftable.

Now my lord Conftable !

Con. Hark, how our Steeds for present service neigh. Dau. Mount them, and make incifion in their hides, That their hot blood may fpin in English eyes, And daunt them with fuperfluous courage: ha! Ram. What, will you have them weep our Horfes'

blood?

How fhall we then behold their natural tears?

Enter a Messenger.

Meff. The English, are embattel'd, you French Peers.

Con.

Con. to horfe! you gallant Princes, ftrait to horfe!
Do but behold yon poor and starved band,
And your fair fhew fhall fuck away their fouls;
Leaving them but the fhales and husks of men.
There is not work enough for all our hands,
Scarce blood enough in all their fickly veins
To give each naked curtle-ax a slain;

That our French gallants fhall to day draw out,
And fheath for lack of fport. Let's but blow on them,
The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them.
'Tis pofitive 'gainst all exception, lords,
That our fuperfluous lacqueys and our peasants,
Who in unnecessary action fwarm

About our fquares of battle, were enow
To purge this field of fuch a hilding foe;
Tho' we, upon this mountain's bafis by,
Took fland for idle fpeculation:
But that our honours must not.
A very little, little, let us do;

What's to say?

And all is done. Then let the trumpets found
The tucket-fonuance, and the note to mount:
For our approach fhall fo much dare the field,
That England fhall couch down in fear, and yield.
Enter Grandpree.

Grand. Why do you stay so long, my lords of
France?

Yon Island carrions, defp'rate of their bones,
Ill-favour'dly become the morning field:
Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,
And our air fhakes them paffing fcornfully.
Big Mars feems bankrupt in their beggar'd hoft,
And faintly through a rufty bever peeps.
The horsemen fit like fixed candlefticks,
With torch-ftaves in their hand; and their poor jades
Lob down their heads, dropping the hide and hips:
The gum down-roping from their pale dead eyes;

N 4

And